


Buttercup Days

by searchingwardrobes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Freeform, I Don't Even Know, lieutenent duckling, poetry?, sort of stream of concsiousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingwardrobes/pseuds/searchingwardrobes
Summary: The meadow of buttercups was their special place. Particularly at six, sixteen, and twenty-six.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I have no idea what this is! I was reading children's poetry to my six year old when this came to me. It's basically a CS version of the A. A. Milne poem "Buttercup Days" from Now We Are Six. I know, I know, but just trust me, okay? Lines from the actual poem are in italics (I changed "Christopher Robin" to Killian and "Anne" to Emma of course). This is my first foray into Lieutenant Duckling.

              When she was six, she first found the meadow filled with buttercups. It was the first time she ran away, tired of lessons and shoes that pinched and the nurse maid who was much too proper. And so she ran amidst cries of, “Where is Emma?” from both the guards and her parents. And she ran and ran, the grass so cool on her bare feet, until the meadow spread before her, the buttercups swaying in the breeze. She didn’t see the boy with the bright blue eyes and the laughing smile until she had cast off her pinafore and her dress, followed by the itchy crinoline and the suffocating corset. In nothing but her shift, she waded into the stream that ran along the buttercups, wriggling her toes. Then there was his laughter, and her screams, and those mirthful blue eyes widening in shock when she pushed him. An unlikely beginning, but they understood each other. The princess and the little stable boy. And from then on, whenever someone would ask, “Where’s Emma?” They would answer: _Head above the buttercups, walking by the stream, down among the buttercups._

              By the time she was sixteen, things had changed. She never could quite put her finger on when or how, and neither of them ever broached a conversation about it, but slowly as twelve faded to thirteen, which slowly ebbed to fourteen, which blossomed gently into fifteen, which bloomed full grown into sixteen, it had happened. Blue eyes could now not only read her, but pierce her very soul. Hands that had always grasped hers with such comfort, now thrilled her with every caress. Lips that had always lifted in a mirthful smile now moved over hers in ways that stoked a flame within. Emma now slipped away by the light of the moon, and the buttercups tilted close to hear the whispers of friends become lovers. Now, people no longer asked “Where is Emma?” She was of that bewildering age now that left the older generation wondering, “What has she got in that little blonde head?” And there was no answer; not from them. But if they had asked, Killian would have told them: _Wonderful thoughts which can never be said._

Sixteen was waning, but seventeen had not yet come when Emma’s whole world seemed to tilt on its axis. There, amidst the buttercups, he told her of the adventures he would have, the places he would see. He kissed her tears away, swore their love would bring him safely home. A princess and a stable boy? They could only have the moon and the buttercups. But a princess and a lieutenant? They could have the world. At least, that’s what he said. And she tried, oh she tried to believe it. But if this was all they might ever have, this last night amongst the buttercups, she would drink deeply enough that her memories might be enough to see her through. So she fell down, down into the meadow’s embrace, tugging on his hand, pulling him with her. _What has she got in that firm little fist of hers? **Somebody’s hand, and it feels like Killian’s.**_

When she was twenty-six, she heard the news that brought her to her knees. Ten years of letters; half of them holding something back, and the other half unanswered. Ten years of walking to the pier, letting the salty wind dry her tears. Ten years without buttercups. Five years since she heard those three little words from his brother’s lips: lost at sea. And how can she face him now? Explain to him the heavy thing she left out of all those letters? And the only thing she knows to do is run again, down past the garden walls, through the wood, and down to the buttercups. He finds her there, she knew he would. But there’s a smaller hand already in hers that he doesn’t expect, and she watches his eyes widen as blue eyes meet blue. A tear slips down her cheek as she nods, relinquishing the small hand that rests in hers. And Killian sinks to the carpet of their buttercups, one hand stretching toward the cheek of the child before him, the other lacing with hers, and deep within her, she knows. She knows those buttercup days are far from over.

              “Where is Emma?” they ask. _Close to her man. Brown head, gold head. In and out the buttercups._


End file.
